


When You Come Back Down

by flannelcastiel



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Fallen Castiel, Human Castiel, M/M, Post Season 8
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-03
Updated: 2013-07-03
Packaged: 2017-12-17 12:54:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,130
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/867769
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flannelcastiel/pseuds/flannelcastiel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i> Besides his dirty clothes, which have now been replaced with a plain t-shirt and blue jeans, both of which are Dean’s and therefore are too big for his frame, these trinkets are the only things Castiel has to call his own. Even the body he wears was taken, or rather given through misguided manipulation. These things are his and his alone.</i>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Prompted from Tumblr.</p>
            </blockquote>





	When You Come Back Down

Lebanon, Kansas, population 217—221 if the Men of Letters bunker were included in any census, is home to one thrift store. It hides in an alleyway, the only indication of its existence being a sign with faded paint—reading "Hoss's Antiques & Thrift"— and a neon sign flickering as it pointed down that alley.

It's wandering that brings Castiel to its door. Spare change is shoved into the pockets of his overcoat, damp from the heavy rain that falls down from a tumultuous gray sky. He could have sought shelter at any number of the small shops down the Main Street, but he does not mind the rain. It's refreshing. It washes away the sweat cooked onto his face, the leaves that are embedded in his hair. He wishes it could wash away the humanity on him, but he's afraid that his particular condition is permanent.

But the flashing arrow, the paint peeling with the pouring raindrops—it intrigues him. And if Castiel has no sanity then he must maintain his intrigue. All that has gone amiss—angels falling from heaven and all—Castiel is not surprised that the shopkeeper pays him special attention. He is dirty, yet drenched to the bone, and shivering. The heat that hits his face is a respite from the cold, but he is a sight nevertheless. Castiel meets the shopkeeper's eyes and there is an expression he is sure is a reflection of his own. A sadness, if he is not mistaken.

Castiel knows sadness, but it feels so foreign now. Angels always are aware that they live in a strangers skin, and even though Jimmy Novak has been absent for some time, Castiel never considered his vessel his own. But it is now, he can feel it as he shivers, he can feel it as tears sting in his eyes.

The shelves in this thrift shop are clean, but the items are piled upon each other in an attempt to utilize the space. Castiel walks down one aisle, eying the trinkets as if they are priceless artifacts. They are in a way, he decides, touching an old bottle. The glass has taken on a golden tint, the embossing of Coka-Cola nicked and scratched along the middle. Castiel imagines a young man walking down the old streets of Lebanon, true to its era, drinking down the soda to quench his thirst and find respite from the dry Kansas heat. He holds on to the bottle.

A few meters down is a bird. Not the kind that has its own heartbeat or can flap its young wings and fly, but a likeness of a cardinal. Castiel can tell that is the intended design because of the bird’s design, because time has worn away the red paint. However, the attention to detail astounds him for a moment. He touches the wings and marvels at how intricately the wood has been carved, as if these were actual wooded wings and not something sculpted from a cylindrical branch or stump. It is small things like this that restore Castiel’s faith in humanity, when his own pride inflates his hypocrisy.

He takes the bird as well.

For the moment, Castiel feels a throb of longing. All these human things remind him of his humans, whom he abandoned just days ago yet again, to pursue his mission. Even if it was to save his family... he still left them. Things were even worse, now that he did the opposite.

Castiel is the worst angel ever. Second to Lucifer of course.

Examining the bottle and the bird, he thinks they make a good pair. Symbols of man and nature, both results of two drastically different types of industry. He does not wish to let them go now.

He takes them to the counter near the front of the store, where the keeper still eyes him. Castiel slides his items onto the counter gently.

Wordlessly, he reaches a hand into his pocket and pulls out a few notes. He frowns and murmurs, “all I have is two dollars.”

“That’s fine.” The storekeeper accepts the notes and tries a smile. It is transparently sympathetic, which makes Castiel look away. He does not deserve that sort of sympathy.

“Thank you.”

He bags them in a used grocery store bag, and even offers Castiel an umbrella, which he declines. The cold is a reminder, the shivering a punishment, of all that he’s done. Plus it’s further motivation to seek out his humans, and to not run into the night once more.

 

.

“Cas.”

It’s a surprised breath, void of anger or sadness or even relief. It’s just surprised. Castiel actually would prefer Dean being angry to this voided gasp. He is soaked, drenched in mud and leaves are matted in his pants. His shoes making a squishing noise each time he wiggles his toes. It’s because he slept in the mud just outside the bunker. He found it, after several hours of wandering, but could not get inside and, evidently, secret bunkers hidden in the Kansas hills do not have doorbells.

“Dean,” he replies back, rising from the ground. He dizzily falters, but cowers from Dean’s hand when it reaches out to steady him. “Say it.”

“Say what?”

“How badly I have screwed up. How this latest escapade of mine is, indeed, unforgivable.” He is already sure that Dean is still angry for beating him to a bloody pulp—be it at Naomi’s will or not—and then running away with the angel tablet. He wants nothing more than Dean’s words to crush his soul, because it is preferable to the pain he is inflicting upon himself. If Dean can be angry for him, maybe Castiel can give up hating himself. Although, it’s unlikely.

“I’m not,” Dean says suddenly, and now he’s injecting some emotion. “I’m not gonna say anything.”

Castiel glares at him, but says nothing else when Dean firmly grabs his shoulder and pulls him into an unexpected embrace. It’s like the hug Dean gave him in purgatory, and that makes him oddly hopeful. Dean must have been worried about him then. Castiel worried about Dean only briefly, before resuming his self-loathing. A new wave of shame brushes over his features. He does not return the embrace, but he presses his eyes into Dean’s shoulder blade. Hiding himself.

 

.

Sam and Dean happily give Castiel a room in the bunker, with a bed that is much more comfortable than the mud. Before he is allowed to sleep, though, Dean insists he eat, and then shower. Even Castiel agrees a good idea, because his current state is... laughable.

The plastic bag in which is trinkets are stored is kept knotted and, when asked about it, Castiel says they are his belongings and nothing more. They would think him foolish for buying an empty bottle and a worn wooden cardinal.

He stores them under his bed for a while, until he feels the need to touch them. To remind himself that little things like this once held significance, and that they still can even if they only ever belong to Castiel. To anyone else, except perhaps the shopkeeper of the thrift store and Castiel, they are useless. Besides his dirty clothes, which have now been replaced with a plain t-shirt and blue jeans, both of which are Dean’s and therefore are too big for his frame, these trinkets are the only things Castiel has to call his own. Even the body he wears was taken, or rather given through misguided manipulation. These things are his and his alone.

 

.

 

Three weeks Castiel has lived in the bunker when Dean finally speaks to him. Of course Dean had talked to Castiel, telling him that dinner was ready or that he, Sam, and Kevin were about to watch a movie—but never to Castiel alone. And never in his bedroom.

He is awake, laying underneath the covers, when Dean knocks on his door.

“Come in.”

“Hey,” Dean calls out, flicking on a light switch. He apologizes when Castiel winces at the bombardment of light, and then crosses the room. He sits on the edge of Castiel’s  bed. “Are you okay?”

“No,” he replies, his voice unforgiving and hard. It is unintentional, and Dean seems unaffected.

“That was a stupid question, of course you’re not okay.” Dean rubs his forehead. “Talk to me.”

“What if I don’t want to talk?” Castiel whispers.

“Then don’t,” Dean replies. “But if you want to, I wanna hear, okay? We’re worried. I’m worried.”

“Why? You don’t need to fix me, Dean. I’m beyond broken.”

“Because you’re human?” Dean presses.

“No—well, yes. ‘Broken’ is in fact synonymous to ‘human’ and you should know.”

Dean flinches. “Me listening isn’t the same thing as you being entitled to bitch at me, though,” Dean snaps, rising from the bed. “I’ll come back when you’ve pulled that stick out of your ass.”

And he does leave, and Castiel feels sickly rewarded for making Dean angry at him.

 

.

 

The next day, Dean enters his room without knocking. It is actually a storm, when he throws open the door and flips on the light. Castiel is sleeping when he pulls the comforter up to cover his eyes, but Dean rips it down so he can see Castiel’s face. Dean is angry, green eyes darkening like a hurricane.

“Get up,” he orders, and Castiel half-heartedly pushes himself back, so that he’s leaning against the headboard.

“What is so urgent that couldn’t wait until I awoke?”

“You sleep all day and all night, so excuse me for taking up your precious time.” Dean yanks a chair from the room’s corner and slides it right up next to it. He sits, each movement tainted with his latent anger, which glows on his skin as annoyance. “You don’t wanna talk to me—but you’re gonna listen alright.”

Castiel simply stares at him, and Dean glares right back.

“You were gone, Cas. For days. We thought you were dead,” Dean says, gruff and urgent. “Then you show up, dirty and half-starved and you have nothing to say.”

“I told you what Metatron did,” Castiel murmurs. “I thought that was sufficient.”

“But what about you? You’re like Boo Radley, creeping around the bunker to get food and use the shitter, but you aren’t here.” Dean taps his temple. “You’re somewhere else, and—and I don’t want you to be.”

“Where should I be the, Dean?” Castiel asks.

Dean presses his lips together, nodding as if he is choosing the correct words to say. He’s oddly careful, which surprises Castiel, although he does not let it show.

“Here,” Dean finally breathes. “We want you here.”

“Why? I have nothing to offer, being...here.” He touches his head, as Dean had. “My wings are clipped. I am something short of utterly useless.”

Dean stares at him. “I’m not asking you for anything.”

“I...” Castiel’s eyebrows pinch. “But I simply can’t help you anymore, not like this.”

“You’re not hearing me.” Dean’s fists are clenched in his lap, Castiel observes, but he isn’t angry. In fact, his features have softened. “We—I am not asking anything from you, not now. Angel or not, you’re still Cas.”

Is he? All that Castiel is, and has ever been in his seemingly infinite existence has revolved around being angel. Whether he served heaven, served God, served himself, he has always been an angel above everything. To Sam and Dean, that’s all he has been, too. Or so he thought. A place to siphon information from, a weapon against some unbeatable odds. Their defender. Their healer. And once, like family, but Castiel knows he has cast that small niche into the flames along with his countless betrayals and shortcomings.

“Who is ‘Cas’ then?” Castiel growls. “Because I am not this body. I am but my knowledge, my actions. Everything that composes who I am started with you, when I ripped your soul from perdition and rebuilt you. All I ever knew to be is an angel. What do I do now? I am nothing.”

“Jesus—” Dean begins, staggering back in his chair with a perplexed expression. “You know how much bullshit is spewing out of your mouth right now?”

“Excuse me?”

“You—when you were possessed or whatever the fuck happened in Lucifer’s catacomb, and laid me down with your fists...weren’t you listening?” Dean asks, leaning forward. His eyes blaze, down at Castiel, as if he can see right through him. Castiel feels oddly naked, more naked than he’s ever felt under Dean’s gaze. “When I say I need you, I fucking mean it, Cas. I don’t need you because you’re a walking supernatural encyclopedia; I need you because you’re my—” He stops to take an unneeded breath. “I just don’t say that often.”

But Dean had said it once before, in Purgatory. He thought in that context, Dean needed protection from monsters, which seemed completely illogical given that he had been a monster magnet.

“I didn’t understand,” is all Castiel mutters, looking away.

“Of course you didn’t. But Cas, just—when I thought you died, I wasn’t okay. You leave so much, and this is the longest you’ve ever stayed with us. I don’t know if it’s only ‘cause you got nowhere else to go—”

“I don’t,” Castiel interjects.

“Let me finish,” Dean grits out. “But you’re here, and I just kinda wish you’d come out and hang out with us, let us show you that human isn’t one hundred percent bad.”

“To be honest... I’d rather be with you than anywhere else.” Castiel raises his eyes to meet Dean’s. “I cannot tell you how long that has been true...Dean.”

They gaze at one another for a long time, until Sam’s voice carries into the bedroom, telling them that dinner’s ready. Without thinking Castiel grabs Dean’s hand, which was simply lying open his lap, to pull himself out of the bed. He cannot say that Dean’s hand refusing to let go stays absent from his thoughts, but he tries to keep the new and foreign emotions at bay.

 

.

 

It becomes easier to... be.

Not easy, but more bearable, as he joins Sam on trips to the grocery store once a week. He spends quite some time outside, and sometimes he will even find Dean lying on the hood of his car, drowning in the sunlight. Once, he finds himself staring at the visage, hypnotized by the small smile on Dean’s lips as he drinks in the sun. Dean catches him, invites Castiel to lie next to him.

And he does; he tries to close his eyes, he really does. When one has existed as pure light, it is not as fascinating. Dean inspires more awe for Castiel than the sun ever can.

 

.

 

What compels Castiel to bring out his trinkets is a mystery to him. Sam and Kevin have gone out, so it is just he and Dean in the bunker. Dean is watching television when Castiel brings in his dirty plastic bag, still knotted tightly from the last time he looked at his little things.

He takes a seat next to Dean, feeling quite small as he lays the bag in his lap, anxiously unknotting it with his blunt fingernails. Dean says nothing, but he watches Castiel’s hands closely, most likely curious about the contents of the bag.

“These are mine,” is all Castiel says when he first pulls out the bottle, rolls it in his hands, closes his eyes and tries to feel the letters around the center like a blind man reading braille. The glass is cold, from being under his bed, and it’s actually nice. Castiel decides he likes low temperatures, and seeks out darkness rather than light.

He passes the bottle to Dean, who is silent but attentive as he brushes his thumb around the bottle’s open lip. He does not ask, so Castiel offers the story he created in his mind. He describes the year—1935, which he found embossed on the bottom of the bottle—in which a young man inserts a dime into an old machine. It is hot, because there hasn’t been a summer’s rain since summer started. His throat feels as dry as the soil, so he drinks. The bottle is empty, but he keeps it, takes it home and sets it on the shelf above his bed where he keeps his trophies and awards from school. To that boy, the bottle became special, somehow. Special enough to keep it until the day came and he died, and it fell into the hands of an old shopkeeper who owns the thrift shop in Lebanon.

“How do you know all that?” Dean murmurs, entranced by the story as he rolls the bottle between his palms. “De-graced and all?”

“I don’t... I made it up.”’

Dean is watching him, closely, and his lips fall open slightly, but he closes them and nods to the bag. “What else you got.”

Castiel proceeds to show him the bird, the cardinal, and tells another story as he brushes his calloused fingers against the tips of those wooden wings. The carpenter who made this one, perhaps, never made art. He always thought his hands to gruff to make something beautiful, because his entire career he’d built houses and furniture. One night, however, he sits before his fireplace with a finely sharpened knife and begins to carve away at a spare block of wood. Before long, he sees a beak—the beak of the cardinal that always sits on the windowsill of his workshop. Night after night, he gently carves away until the beak becomes a head and he can almost see an eye.

During the day, when he hears the cardinal chirping, he watches it rustle its wings, how it moves, and applies the new observation as he continues to chip the wood away. Soon he has carved not just wings, but has etched tail feathers. Once he is satisfied, he uses his wife’s old paints to color it. Never once did he think beauty could be born from his rough hands—nevertheless, he created something that is cherished by his wife, by his children, and his grandchildren until the faded paint and scratches earns the bird its way into that same thrift shop.

“That’s—that’s really beautiful Cas,” Dean comments as Castiel hands him the bird. He touches its wings.

“I know, the feathers remind me of...mine.”

Dean swallows and nods. “I was actually talking about the story... but yeah, the bird’s beautiful.”

“Thank you,” Castiel mutters uncertainly, unfamiliar with compliments.

“I could take you back down there, to the thrift shop.” Dean hands him back the bird. “I’ll buy you anything you like. Gimme an excuse to get outta this damned bunker.”

Castiel’s eyes go alight. “I would like that.”

 

.

 

There is nothing but excitement in the air as the Impala pulls up to the alleyway where the shop is located. The sign flickers, and its achingly familiar. Castiel throws open the door and strides to the opening, Dean running behind him to catch up.

“Slow down,” he complains.

“Walk faster.” Castiel smiles slightly to himself as he pushes the door open.

The shopkeeper is reading a newspaper, then looks up at the sound of the door opening. His brows rise when he sees Castiel, in surprise. Then again, he is now clean and shaven, wearing an old flannel shirt of Dean’s and rough blue jeans. He is a far cry from the drenched, dirty, lost man who came into this same shop nearly two months ago.

Dean is muttering behind Castiel comes in, and he throws a smile to the shopkeeper.

“Top of the morning to ya,” he says, seeming a little anxious as Castiel ventures down one aisle.

He doesn’t listen to the small talk Dean makes with the keeper. He is too entranced by the items sprawled across the shelves. A moment’s glance at each piece holds a flicker of a story, though none of them stick, until his eyes find a music box. Though, the fact that it is a music box could escape many; Castiel only recognizes it because he once glimpsed into heaven’s hall of music, which sampled the best of man’s creations. It’s something vaguely similar—the one in heaven was much less rusted and broken and grander—to this music box.

Castiel picks it up—careful not to rupture the metal any more. It is not an average music box; its base is rounded, but it is actually a sculpture of a city, most likely St. Petersburg in Russia. The architecture of the buildings indicates as such—the rounded roofs, the cross of the Greek Orthodox Church anointing the tallest building.

“What did you find?” Castiel jumps at the sound of Dean’s voice beside him.

“It’s a Russian music box.”

“Whoa,” Dean says, leaning down to look closely. “It’s in pretty rough shape.”

“It had a rough journey,” Castiel says as he nods in agreement. “After the rise of Stalinism, the royal family of Russian and its sympathizers were forced to flee. This belonged to a bureaucrat’s young daughter, who was smuggled to Europe. She was intended to stay in England, but she wished to attend school in the United States. I—I don’t know...” Castiel trails off, finding that his story is dwindling. He knows little of human nature, human behavior. How did this music box find its way to Kansas?

Dean must sense how lost Castiel suddenly feels when he speaks. “Can I?” Dean holds out his hands like a cradle, and Castiel is hesitant to answer his silent request. But for some reason, he gives it to Dean. He gives the story to Dean. “Maybe...” He looks at it as his brows furrow. “Maybe she was going to college in New York, but she fell in love with a farmer. Even though her Dad hated the idea, because she was so much better than him, had done so much, he loved her more than anything. She’d wind the box, the small piece of her true home, and he’d listen. They’d listen, and it was nice. So when they married, and he said that they’d be happier if he could farm in warmer, more open fields, she followed him. And they kept this, until they died... and it got bought up in some old estate sale.”

It is Castiel’s turn to watch Dean, amazed by the story himself.

“Would you...buy it, Dean?”

“Yeah,” he breathes, gently handing it back to Castiel. “Of course.”

 

.

 

Dean buys Castiel acrylic paints and a set of old, worn paint brushes.

“For the bird,” Dean explains, cheeks reddening as he gives Castiel the paper bag. “You deserve to make something beautiful.”

He reaches to take the bag, but touches Dean’s fingers instead, and they both gasp at the warmth. Or at least Castiel feels the warmth, as it rolls up his arm and down into his stomach. He may like the cold, but Dean is a kind of warm he could get used to.

“Thank you, Dean,” he says as he grips the bag, and pulls it into his chest when Dean walks away quickly.

 

.

It’s a slow process, painting.

Castiel has all the paints sprawled across the desk in his bedroom. He examines the brushes, choosing the one with the finest tip. He does not want to ruin the bird by painting it badly, so he starts with black paint on its most prominent features. It’s eyes, the black around its beak that extends down its breast. The bristles drag, catching in the woods splinters. He probably should have sanded it first, but fears that would also affect the wings’ texture.

After he finishes with the black, he goes to squeeze some red from the bottle, but stops. His eyes catch on the bottle of green instead. Experimentally, he puts some of the green into the area of the pallet where Castiel kept the black—there was only a smudge left—and mixes it. A smile grows on his lips. The color is wonderful.

It’s familiar.

 

.

 

“Dean.”

It is actually the first time since Cas became human that he has awoken before Dean. He is in his room, actually, standing over his bed.

Dean opens his eyes slowly, brows pinched as he glares upward.

“Thought you were done watching me sleep.”

Castiel deadpans. “What is the saying? Old habits die hard?”

“Don’t tell me you have a sense of humor now,” Dean laughs, and he finally pushes himself up on his elbows. His hair is disheveled, features soft from sleep despite his glare. Which is fading, anyhow.

“If I do, you and Sam are to blame,” Castiel offers with a small smile.

He scoffs at that, and then shakes his head. “What’s up man?”

“I finished it,” Castiel exhales, and its a breath of relief, excitement and...anxiety. He holds the cardinal in his hands, its head facing Dean as he stretches out to him. Dean turns on his bedside lamp and wipes his eyes, then a smile overtakes his features.

“Dude! It looks awesome!” he exclaims, reaching to take the bird. He holds it carefully, things, unless they belong to Castiel. His expression twitches for a moment, confusion splitting at his face. “I thought you said it was a cardinal.”

“It is,” Castiel replies.

Dean purses his lips. “Then why’s it green?”

“Because, I like the color. It reminds me of...a warm place.” Castiel is being purposely vague, blushing as he does so, and Dean’s eyes prod at him. Dean’s green eyes, in fact—his deep and unbidden green eyes that seem to fill his human dreams. He hasn’t even gotten used to dreaming and Dean is already in most of them, if not all of them since he cannot remember them all.

“That’s—that’s cool,” Dean murmurs, about to hand it back when Castiel holds up a hand to stop him.

“No. It’s yours, Dean. I want you to have it.”

“But you love this little fucker,” Dean says, still holding it out to Castiel. He seems to be in disbelief.

An affectionate quip hangs on Castiel’s lips, but he does not dare say it.

“Please, keep it, Dean. Remember the story behind it, too.”

Dean considers this, staring at the bird for a long moment, until a moment of realization crosses his eyes. He understands.

It takes a few extra seconds before Dean withdraws his arm, and sets the bird carefully on his nightstand. Castiel expects a thank you, but even he is surprised when Dean gets out of bed and pulls him into a hug—one in which his chin dips into the crook of Castiel’s neck, erasing any space between them. He should be used to the gesture now—Dean has now hugged him three times.

It’s a steady, slow decision; it is time for him to return the affection. He wraps his arms around Dean’s frame, and they stand together. Truly together.

 

.

A week passes before they speak like they had been. Usually, Dean is quite awkward and finds ways to retreat to his room. Sam jokes with him in ways Castiel does not understand, speaking of Dean’s ‘unrequited desires’, which earns him a firm punch in the shoulder. Castiel thinks this might all be about him, but he doesn’t know what happened. Dean hugs Castiel, and its just another day; Castiel hugs back and his poorly crafted existence begins to shatter. He misses Dean, and their talks. He misses them going to the thrift shop and picking out more items, polymer animals and old tin containers and antique hair barrettes and windmills. Dean even set up a shelf in the living room to put them, and seeing all the items splayed across it only makes Castiel feel worse, now.

Their hiatus comes to an end one night after dinner, when Kevin and Sam have left for bed while Dean and Castiel clean up. Dean is washing dishes, quite aggressively, Castiel notes. He is drying them as Dean passes them out of the sink, and peers to his side when Dean shuts off the water.

“You’re the Russian girl,” Dean blurts. His eyes are closed and he is staring straight ahead.

“Dean?” Castiel says, voice cracking. On one hand he’s happy that Dean is speaking to him again. He doesn’t like the distance, however small, that’s grown between them. “I don’t understand.”

“The music box, the story I finished. It was about you.”

Castiel’s brows knit together, still confused. “But I’m not...”

“You’re this otherworldly being who’s been places I can’t even fathom, who has sacrificed so much just to be here,” Dean says quickly, still not looking at Castiel. “You said you’d rather be here. Why? I don’t know what the fuck is so great about me. I drink too much and I’ve screwed up practically every relationship in my life—and the other ones, well, they’re dead now because I got ‘em killed.”

“Dean—”

“No,” Dean says, loudly, finally turning to him. “You come back Cas, even when you fuck up, or you die, or I push you away, you flutter on back. And even without wings you showed up, and now we’re...it feels like it’s just you and me, sometimes, and that’s all I want to think about. Us.”

“Us,” Castiel breathes, and there is a silent agreement as they watch each other. It’s all slow, dangerous, and risky, the road they’ve chosen. If Castiel is honest, it’s a road that he has taken far too many times, and then retreated. Even before his fall, he’d felt this way, he realizes. It’s a road he will not cower away again.“Dean, if I’m... I’m the Russian girl, then are you the man she fell in love with?”

Dean closes his eyes, pained by the admission. “In a sense,” he breathes raggedly. “Yeah.”

“Then that means I love you too much to care where you come from,” Castiel replies, and he is moving closer, and Dean noticed. His eyes widen slowly, his lips parting like he is about to make a quiet plea, but he says nothing. “And I don’t. Remember, I pulled you out of Hell, Dean. I saw you at your worst, your most broken. And I fixed you.”

“I never asked you to,” Dean breaks in.

Castiel smiles. “And you will never have to ask.”

For a moment they are silent, and Dean takes the opportunity to lift himself onto the kitchen counter. Castiel leans against it beside him, and nearly jumps when he feels Dean rest a hand on the small of his back.

“Dean.” Castiel touches his knee, leaves his hand resting there. “For the record... you’re the carpenter. I’m the bird.”

 


End file.
